


We Open At Eight

by supernaturallylost



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Fluff, M/M, crowley owns a cafe, dean is homeless, just fluff, sam isn't mentioned but assume that he's well off at stanford or something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 22:04:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3826645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernaturallylost/pseuds/supernaturallylost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley is a small business owner. He runs a cafe on a busy street all by himself. It's well known, despite being relatively new, and gets more and more attention every day. On this day, however, there seems to be something more than just the cafe drawing attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Open At Eight

Crowley liked to whistle. Whether he was good at it was entirely irrelevant in his mind. In fact, he was indifferent to any kind of comments on his whistling. He didn’t do it to make other people happy, after all. Whistling only made the time pass by a little faster.

On that morning, Crowley was whistling to pass the time before he opened the café. In twenty minutes, the doors would open. Already, some patrons had walked by to ask when the café opened.

“We open at eight,” Crowley answered happily with a broom in his hand.

They moved on with one final glance at the many outdoor tables of the café. Crowley thought it was odd how interested the passersby were with the front porch seating, but he shrugged it off until he could finish prepping and cleaning the indoor tables. When finally he took the broom with him to sweep the patio, he finally understood what had the bystanders so intrigued.

Lying on his side, curled innocently underneath a leather jacket, was a sleeping man with messy light brown hair and several freckles. He breathed deeply and seemed perfectly content.

“Um,” Crowley managed.

He stared for a moment before the ten minute alarm beeped once on his watch. Then, with uncertainty, he put the broom to the ground and began to sweep. Dry, red leaves moved to the curb with each sweep. After a minute, Crowley decided that he would just sweep around the sleeping stranger.

The scratching of the broom on the stone patio, the squeaking of the metal chairs being moved from their stacks toward the tables, and the eventual high pitched whistling from Crowley did not seem to disturb the sleeper at all. Instead of moving, he was resting evenly.

Now, however, eight o’clock was nigh. Five minutes remained.

“Well,” Crowley whispered to himself. “What to do…”

Luckily, the stranger made the decision for Crowley. He stirred. Like a newly awoken kitten, the man stretched dramatically and happily over his head, his fingers clenched in a tight fist.

“Good morning,” Crowley smiled. The stranger jumped to his feet in seconds. “Slept well, I hope?”

The stranger blushed and squeezed his jacket closer to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said guiltily. “I was just a little…”

He stopped talking, however, when Crowley walked around him to finish sweeping the last area of the patio. The last few leaves landed on the curb while Crowley whistled his last few notes.

“I’m sorry,” the man tried to say again.

Crowley grinned calmly, as if his heart wasn’t pounding at a hundred beats per second.

“You can always pay me back,” he said simply. “Are you employed?”

Slowly, the man shook his head. His vibrantly green eyes narrowed, his stubbly cheeks flushed, and his forced smile gave him endearing dimples.

“What’s your name?” Crowley asked.

“Dean Winchester.”

“Dean,” Crowley smiled. When he saw Dean’s fingers fidgeting with each other nervously, he laughed, “No need to be so squirrely. If you want a job helping me out around here, it’s yours.”

Crowley tilted the handle of the broom outward for Dean to grab if he wanted to.

After a second of deep thought, Dean gingerly accepted the broom.

“Okay, squirrel,” Crowley smiled, “we open at eight in the morning and close at six in the evening. Does that work with your schedule?”

Dean nodded simply, looked at the ground, shifted his feet, and mumbled, “Thank you, sir.”

“No need for that, Dean,” Crowley said softly. “You can call me Crowley.”

When Dean looked up again, he saw smirking hazel eyes laughing at his embarrassment. Dean flushed against his will yet again, but this time he smiled in earnest.

“Thank you,” he said clearly, “Crowley.”

“I’m going to fix the inside some more. Can you sweep the court a bit more? The chairs should be set out as well. Six to a table, alright?”

After Dean nodded, Crowley whistled his way back indoors. Dean cringed at the horrible off-key squeaky whistling and tried to hold back his laughter. Quietly, he began to hum Metallica.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Leave notes if you have them.


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